The bun! The bun!

I am the kind of person who looks at a restaurant’s menu online before she goes out to dinner. I like to have an idea of what I’m going to order ahead of time, to cut down on the on-the-spot decision making.

I am a planner.

But I found out over the weekend that it’s much harder to plan your meal when you’re eating dim sum.

This particular meal made it on my 27 list mostly because Husband has raved about it, and I’m always up for trying new things.

And, to a degree, I knew what to expect: servers pushing around carts full of food that we could say either yes or no to.

What I didn’t know was how competitive/frantic dim sum could make me feel.

The first couple carts came around fairly quickly, and we enjoyed pork buns and sticky rice – two of the best dishes of the day.

But then there was a lull.

The next carts I saw were loaded with clams and shrimp and beef and chicken…but they were empty by the time they got to us. And I think that made me even hungrier. I know it added to this frantic need I felt to have to choose quickly (and a lot) once the server stopped at our table.

Which is why, when the dessert cart came around and we had a choice between custard pie and custard in a bun, I practically shouted, “The bun! The bun!” to Husband, as if there were a time limit on the decision. Or as if someone else would take it if we didn’t act NOW. (Even though there were plenty available.)

In my defense, the custard bun was fantastic – possibly the best dish of the meal.

But it probably would have been just as delicious if I’d been a little calmer about the decision.

Probably.

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Goal #27: Set a new 10k PR

My previous 10k PR was from 2008, from the second race I’d ever done in my life. I ran the 6.2 miles in 56:16 and was fairly proud of myself (even though I really didn’t have anything to compare it to).

I expected to get faster, but subsequent 10ks were slower, and I started to feel that maybe I had already peaked. Maybe 56:16 would always be my fastest.

But after some recent PR success in other races, I figured it was about time to (try to) update the 10k, and began looking for a race in which to do it.

Enter Heather.

Through her blog, she alerted me to the Run for Shelter 10k, and I decided that now was as good a time as any to go for speed. As Husband has noted, I’m a slave to the weather, and fall is far and away my peak race season.

The race was billed as fairly flat, an easy out-and-back. The organizers also offered free parking and indoor facilities in which to wait for the race start. After many many races of waiting outside in the cold, this was a very welcome change.

My favorite part, however, was the size of the race. There were only 414 10k finishers. That means no weaving, jostling, or crowding on the course. It means that you can focus 100% on you.

Which is exactly what I did.

Aided by a few key running songs (these two are perfect) I pushed myself along, glancing every so often at Guillermo, to make sure we were on track.

My reward was a final time of 50:23, and a brand new shiny PR.

I also managed to finish in the top 10 (okay, #10) of my age group for the first time in…well, ever. So there’s that.

Bottom line: Saturday was the perfect combination of a well-organized race and ideal weather.

And I couldn’t have asked for better PR-setting conditions.

Heather’s far more photo-friendly recap is here.

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Out of the mouths of babes

I’ve been volunteering a lot recently with the kids at church. It was one of my 27 goals, but it was also something that I’d been missing since coming to DC.

Through many years of babysitting, tutoring, teaching Sunday school, and volunteering at camp, I’ve worked with just about every age group, and have had clear favorites over the years.

Usually, when pressed, I’ll list middle schoolers as my favorites to work with. They don’t have the high school attitude yet, but they don’t require the same kid gloves as elementary schoolers do. So middle school usually wins.

But recently, the early elementary crowd has been pulling ahead. That’s the age group that I help teach some Sunday mornings. It’s also the age group that is, I think, the most inclined toward total honesty.

Toward the end of one lesson the kids were coloring, and one started singing “Dynamite.” (You haven’t truly heard Taio Cruz until you’ve heard it from a six-year-old.) I had it on my phone, so I played it for them, which, of course, sparked further requests.

“Firework!”

“Call Me Maybe!”

“Billy Joel!”

Ah, a kindred spirit. (Fun side note: Billy Joel was my first concert.)

As the sounds of “Call Me Maybe” eventually filled the classroom, Aiden – the little boy who had requested it – confided just why he liked it.

“I like this song because I like to chase girls.”

And Astrid, the little girl who had requested Billy Joel, responded in much the same way I think I would have at that age.

“You can chase me if you want!”

Kindred spirits, indeed.

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If jobs were celebrated like wedding anniversaries, I’d be getting silverware today.

Five years ago today I started my first (and current) big girl job.

I remember the feeling of getting up early and taking the metro into DC from Ballston.

I remember the outfit I wore.

I remember the welcome lunch I was taken out to – at a downtown restaurant that no longer exists.

I remember the newness of it all.

And while I may still be at the same job – a rarity for my age group – many more things have changed over those five years.

Five years ago…

…I thought that Ballston was close enough to DC.

…I didn’t have a blog.

…I hadn’t yet met Husband.

…I hadn’t even considered grad school.

…I hadn’t run one marathon, much less three in three months.

…to be fair, I hadn’t actually run any races.

…I’d never flown through the air - with or without a net.

…I wasn’t even close to being considered a local.

Now, I still wouldn’t consider myself a local – and I’m not quite sure when you get to that point – but I do consider this city home.

And that’s something else that I didn’t imagine happening five years ago.

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I’m just glad the polls don’t open at 4am

I’ve recently begun to feel that presidential campaigns and Election Day are going the way of Black Friday.

1) They both get earlier and earlier every year.

Sure, Election Day remains on the same schedule (as does Black Friday), but the preparation starts years in advance (or days, in the case of the sales). In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if the (unofficial) campaign for 2016 started about half an hour after the results are announced tonight. And half an hour is generous.

2) They bring out the worst in people.

I don’t know if you’ve ever seen a wave of Black Friday shoppers descend on one of the more popular sales of the day. Supplies are limited and these shoppers don’t mess around. There can be elbowing, shoving, and some definite boxing out. All on minimal sleep.

Leading up to an election, the elbowing, shoving, and boxing out is (usually) all verbal. I’m sure that people still have rational discussions about the merits of each candidate, but you wouldn’t know it from Facebook. I’ll be glad when status updates get back to sports, food, weddings, and babies.

3) Expect long lines and cold weather.

The lead time gets longer and longer, but that doesn’t make the lines any shorter, or the November weather any warmer on the day of. You could spend just as long outside waiting to vote for president as you could to buy a new winter coat. And the coat might last longer.

(No, that’s not an election prediction.)

4) There are lots of promises to get you in the door.

All of those circulars that you get in the mail promise the best sale you’ve ever seen on devices you didn’t know you needed until then. But you don’t see the fine print until you’re checking out. (Buy 1, get 2 free only applies if I get here before 5am?! I have to revamp my whole strategy!)

Naturally, there have been plenty of election promises this time around. And though I can’t fully judge if it’s any different from past years, I know that the fine print is just right around the corner.

5) Both days should be celebrated/concluded with a big glass of wine.

Or choose another beverage of your choice, but seriously, celebrate. The way things are going, there won’t be a lot of down time before the next one.

Election Day does beat Black Friday on sticker distribution.

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Seoul, South Korea – we got soul, too!*

If you’re looking for a way to break into someone’s conversation, might I suggest this technique, used by a random gentleman in Chinatown last night.

MJ and I had finished our dinner date and were getting ready to head home, when all of a sudden we were approached and heard…

“I’m the black rain man!“

And then: “Come on, baby dolls, pick a country. Any country in the world!“

My gut instinct was to avoid, and just say we had to go.

But then MJ responded: “Japan,” and the self-described black rain man burst out into a rap.

I didn’t catch it all. A lot of it was mumbled. But I did hear the words Nagasaki, Hiroshima, Tokyo, and Okinawa.

BRM: “That’s some educated shit right there! Your turn, baby doll! Pick a country!“

And so, being the international nerds we are (phrasing courtesy of MJ) we went a few countries more, with BRM rapping about our choices, and MJ and me trying to understand what he was saying.

When we finally stopped him, being clear that we had to go, he said goodbye and put his hand on my shoulder to impart some final words of wisdom.

“Baby doll, listen up. Don’t let him touch you. I don’t care if you have one kid off him or 10,000. Don’t let him touch your *mumble mumble*“

And as he walked over to another group, I turned to MJ.

“Don’t let him touch my what?“

“Your vines? I think he said your vines.“

Don’t let him touch your vines.

Huh.

I’m sure that’s good advice, but I think I still preferred the country raps.

At least, what I understood.

*That line is original BRM – one of the few parts we understood and remembered.

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Downsizing

When I first moved down to the DC area, more than five years ago now, Cla and I lived in a spacious two bedroom apartment. I had two closets, two dressers, and more clothes than I actually needed.

When I moved into a studio in DC proper, I lost one closet, but still had my dressers (plus some under-the-bed storage), and saw no need to pare down my wardrobe.

These bad boys can hold an awful lot of clothing.

Nearly two years ago, though, I had to downsize a bit. I was moving in with Husband and had to consolidate everything into one closet and one dresser. (Don’t worry, I got dibs on the tall one.)

So Cla and BnB helped out, giving me the hard truth and convincing me to part with pieces that should have been gone years ago.

And that setup’s been working – aided by frequent “spring” cleaning.

But now, it’s time to downsize again.

In the interest of freeing up space in the bedroom, we decided (I say we – it might have been my idea) to consolidate two dressers into one.

As in, one shared dresser.

And we decided this about two months ago. Right around the time of that Ikea trip I mentioned, when Husband warned me that we couldn’t overstuff the car.

We didn’t overstuff (nothing sticking out the windows!), but we did get a dresser.

And two months later, we finally have it put together.

I’d be lying if I said that consolidating was easy. I have a hard time getting rid of things all at once, which means that I have an ongoing pile of clothes to donate (I might change my mind!) and some piles that just don’t fit in the drawers when everything’s clean. I’ve also had to find new ways to maximize my closet space. (Further suggestions on that are very welcome, by the way.)

But overall, I’d still say that the one dresser move was a good one.

For one thing, the bedroom already looks bigger. For another, having to weed through my wardrobe has uncovered hidden gems that I forgot I had.

Like the gray sequin dress I wanted to wear for New Year’s last year, but couldn’t find. Or the super comfy sweater that got tucked away in the depths of the closet. Or those leather pants that I haven’t worn since…freshman year of college.

On second thought, maybe some things are better left hidden.

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I felt like a traitor

I went to my very first postseason game ever yesterday, and it wasn’t even for the Phillies.

Granted, that would have been hard to do, considering they were effectively eliminated months ago. (Though, officially, it’s only been a couple weeks.)

But I digress.

Yesterday I went to the Nats-Cardinals game – Game 3 of the NLDS, and the first postseason home game for the Nationals – and I cheered for the Nats.

It didn’t feel right.

It didn’t feel natural.

It didn’t feel as intense.

But it did feel like the lesser of two evils.

If my Phillies weren’t in the same division as the Nats, I wouldn’t have thought twice about rooting for the home team. But they are, so I did.

The Cardinals, however, killed our posteason last year, and I can hold a grudge with the best of them.

Even so, my Nats cheers just weren’t heartfelt, and I tried to explain it to Husband.

“I feel dirty. I don’t like cheering for a division rival.“

Husband understood. He didn’t try to convince me otherwise, and he nodded (without explicitly agreeing) when I rationalized.

“I can’t root for the Cardinals; they beat us last year. And it’s not like the Nats beat out the Phillies for the division. We were never really in the running.“

In the end, though, my reasoning – sound or not – didn’t matter. The Nats lost to the Cards, and I realized the only slight silver lining of not having your own team in the postseason: I wasn’t sad about the loss.

Last year, when the Phillies were in the NLDS, my emotions were tied up in each and every game. And I cried when we lost the series.

This year, I won’t cry either way. I’ll cheer for a good game, and get goosebumps when I see all of the “Legends are born in October” commercials. And I won’t be emotionally drained by the end of the month.

But truth be told, I’d always rather be in the running and risk the heartbreak, than not be in the game at all.

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One of those days when padded shorts could have made all the difference

I don’t do a lot of research before I set my birthday goals. They’re kind of a gut decision – things I want to do, ideas I’ve had. That kind of thing.

So when I added “Take a bike ride out to Mount Vernon,” I wasn’t thinking of how far it was, I was thinking, A bike ride! That sounds lovely!

Turns out, it was beautiful, but I don’t know if I’d call it lovely.

You see, Mount Vernon is about 20 miles (a little more, as we found out) away from the apartment.

The longest ride I’d ever done was also about 20 miles – and that included a wipeout.

I did not think about these things in conjunction until we were already on our way to Mount Vernon.

Husband had done the Mount-Vernon-and-back trip before. He told me it would be about 40 miles total, but I must have just let that wash over me, not registering that 40 miles is SO FAR.

I was also anticipating that this would be more of a leisurely ride, where we would stop and rest and relax for a bit along the way. You know, no hurry to get to the end.

Wrong. Wrong wrong wrong.

But, for the first 10 miles or so, I was peachy. We rode down Rock Creek and picked up the Mount Vernon Trail. We passed the airport, which was as far as I’d been on that trail before, and ventured into new territory. And it really was beautiful.

We had a perfect day for riding and only minimal crowds on the trails, so we weren’t dodging people left and right.

Just after we passed under the Woodrow Wilson bridge, however, I started to feel it. We’d been riding for more than an hour, and my butt was beyond sore. If we’re being honest here, that whole general region was sore because my bike seat, while comfortable enough for a daily commute, was not built for use for hours at a time.

That, and I still haven’t bought padded bike shorts. And that’s on me.

Regardless, the next ten miles to Mount Vernon were filled with me alternatively shifting in my seat, cursing myself for this idea, and wondering how such a beautiful ride could be so painful.

But we made it.

 

I was stalling, trying to prolong getting back on the bike for the ride home, so we wandered around the visitor center for a bit, trying not to collide with the tour groups.

Eventually, we had to go. It was getting cooler and windier and, by that point, we both wanted to be home.

I’d be lying if I said the ride back was easy. It was still painful and made me appreciate the cushy-ness of our couch more than I ever have before.

But I did it. And now I know what 40 miles feels like.

And I know that if I ever want to do it again (which seems unlikely right now), padded shorts are a necessary investment.

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Hot yoga sneak attack

It’s no secret that I love hot yoga. And when I head to a class, I make sure to prepare myself. I have two towels, two bottles of water (at least), and likely an extra shirt. Plus the mindset that hot yoga requires – it will be hard; you’ll sweat your ass off; and you’ll probably slip on the mat or floor at least once.

Last night, however, I chose a non-heated class.

I wanted something a little less strenuous, a little less slippery, and a little more centering.

Of course, I was stressed from leaving work late, rushed to the class and forgot my water bottle – not the best start to a lovely meditative practice. But I lay on mat, trying to relax and focus – secure in the knowledge that this class would be far cooler than I was used to. Just what I needed.

Not even 15 minutes in, I was already sweating.

Okay, I thought. There are a lot of people; it’s a smaller space. But the instructor is adjusting the thermostat – I’m sure he’s making it cooler.

Which was quickly followed by, but then why are there puddles around my mat? And damn me for forgetting my water!

I started wondering if it was even possible to do non-heated yoga in the DC summer. Maybe the heat and humidity just permeate everywhere. Maybe there’s no escape.

Until the instructor announced, “Sorry everyone. The thermostat isn’t working. I have the air on, but it doesn’t seem to be doing anything. Don’t worry, though. I’ll report it to the building management.“

And suddenly all those little puddles made sense, and I was back to cursing my lack of water.

I tried to get back to my intention, but my mindset was all off. All I could think of was powering through, cooling off, and changing into clothes that weren’t dripping.

There was a moment during the final resting pose that I thought I might have found my center again. The room was dark and quiet, and I’d just gotten a grasp on my intention.

But as soon as the instructor asked us to sit up, all too soon, I might add, my first thought was, What a shitty shavasana.

Center: still lost.

I’m already signed up for several more classes next week – all non-heated – so here’s hoping that they fix the thermostat in time.

Or that I remember my water.

But preferably the thermostat. And a longer shavasana.

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